Aquarius orthodoxy

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Aquarius orthodoxy
Are planet
The last in the roulette
To be shot into extension
Who brave enough to fire ?
only those obsessed with Materials
More valued to a world of copper and notes than
the function of human expression
He adjust centre tarsal folds
So unsure of himself
He would pull the trigger
Just to be remembered
All this pebble dash and
Victorian baked walls
Environmentally don’t link
To the warm
Looking for belonging
Atrophic grey
Pigments blue
And the artic silk That won’t lay
He wants to see beauty
in a different Ph of lime
And death
As not just a absent of light
With just the activity in his head
To be accompanied to ambiguous
Polystyrene desires Interrogate his enclosure
Contracting a downward fringe
Losing the Frey
In temperament rags
He can’t carve
A final statement in stone
Its pages too long [/pre]


© copyright luke instone-brewer 2006
Last edited by giant anatomy on Thu Feb 02, 2006 12:05 am, edited 1 time in total.




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it's ok, it shows that you have talent, but it doesn't feel like it's really focusing on anything that's worth a damn to me. Gimme something my heart can cling to. Gimme something that smashes me, down to the solid bleeding ground. In this, you speak of Materials and the lie of science-dreams, sweet, and you hide it in an almost indecipherable language, which adds intrigue, makes you meditate, all very good. Now gimme reason to.




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cheers for the review pulled it off well, just 2 help u maybe relate 2 it more its about the fear of not being remembed but not going 2 go in2 any more depth or reasoning cos that just spoil the poem ill let you code out the words for yourself... o and remeber its expression of my emotion so it wont relate 2 all only those who feel the same feel free 2 leave comments mate :D




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my fav poem i love the concept your def the best poet on this site no doubt your a unsung genius keep making more dude ....sum1 publish this kid lol :D



I cannot separate the aesthetic pleasure of seeing a butterfly and the scientific pleasure of knowing what it is.
— Vladmir Nabokov